Full Tilt, page 9
Lachie, with a cut on his brow and a twinkle in his eye that says he lives to cause problems, leans over with a mock-stern look. “Still here, Crawford? Thought you only stayed for an hour before doing your brooding-wolf-slips-off-into-the-shadows thing.”
Camden makes a low noise, clearly unimpressed. “Piss off.”
Another guy—lean and tattooed, clearly a winger by the looks of him—grins around his bottle. “Seriously, though. He’s stayed all night. Write it down.”
Lachie eyes me like I’m part of some cosmic puzzle. “You’ve got a hell of a pull, mate. Usually takes a full five pints and an emergency team strategy session to keep him this long.”
“Maybe I’m just charming,” I offer.
Lachie smirks. “I like this one.” Then he glances back at Camden and, without missing a beat, says, “You should definitely come to the next match.”
Camden tenses beside me. Just slightly. But instead of arguing or deflecting like I expect him to, he says nothing. He simply takes another sip of his beer, eyes flicking anywhere but mine.
I look at him, trying to read what that silence means. Does he want me there? Or is this just one of those “it’s easier not to explain” things? Still, I did enjoy the game, and the buzz, and even the weird, live-wire thrill of watching him work like that.
So I grin. “Sure. I’m up for it.”
Camden doesn’t respond immediately, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitch, like he’s not entirely mad about it.
Then his phone buzzes again.
And again.
And again.
He pulls it out with a huff. “Sorry. It’s blowing up tonight.”
Lachie leans over with zero shame. “It’s his jerk-off group. They’re probably swapping nudes.”
I splutter mid-sip and cough-laugh so hard, I nearly snort beer out my nose. “Jesus.”
Camden glares at him. “Piss. Off.” But he’s not angry. Not really. More like exasperated. The kind of reaction that only comes from years of enduring the same brand of chaos. He looks at me and waves his phone slightly. “It’s not a jerk-off group.”
“Oh?” I say, still laughing. “Disappointing.”
Camden shoots me a look, but he’s smirking now. “It’s actually a chat group I’ve got with a bunch of queer athletes. We all met last year—photoshoot thing, article in Queervolution. Kept in touch after. It’s… decent.”
My brain halts.
Holy fuck.
My gaze snaps to him before I can help it, eyes wide, heart doing that stupid stutter again.
He notices. Of course he does. His expression shifts slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to work out exactly what I know—and whether it’s a problem. “What?” he says, cautious but not sharp. “Didn’t think I had friends?”
“No,” I say quickly, lifting a hand. “No, it’s just—That’s… cool. I actually saw your name when I was looking up what a tighthead prop even does. One of the links mentioned an old interview. Some press crap too.”
His jaw ticks once, barely. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “They had a field day back then.”
“I noticed,” I say, softer now. “But nothing in the last few years, which is kind of impressive.” It seriously is no easy feat, staying out of the limelight, especially as an out player.
He shrugs, glancing away for a second. “I learned to keep my head down.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. But he looks at me again, more searching than before. Like he’s waiting for some hint of judgement, some flinch.
He won’t find it.
Instead, I smile. “Still badass, being involved in that Queervolution article.”
His eyes flick to mine, something unreadable there. The tension in his jaw loosens, just a little. Lachie, mercifully distracted by someone else’s fries, turns his attention away, and Camden relaxes a bit beside me. Not fully—he’s still Camden, after all—but the edge softens.
I don’t ask for more. But I file it away, this new layer of him. One he didn’t have to share but did anyway. Because Camden Crawford might be the quietest man in the room, but there’s a hell of a lot going on underneath.
And somehow, he let me see it.
He’s still scrolling through his phone, thumb scrolling with the kind of concentration that looks suspiciously like he’s trying not to smile. His mouth twitches once—once—and that’s when the thought creeps in.
Wait a second.
I’d skimmed that article when it came out. It was a big deal—queer athletes from different sports speaking out, showing up, challenging perceptions. I remembered the photoshoot. How could I not? Saw the buzz. I even remember thinking, Holy shit, where were guys like this when I was coming out?
But now that I think about it, why can’t I remember seeing Camden’s name? Or even his image? Sure, I probably hadn’t been reading it for the journalism, but still. If I’d seen him, I would’ve remembered. Hell, he’d have been my late-night fantasy long before I knew his name, never mind kissed him in an alley.
Probably for the best I didn’t, I think, trying to fight the smile tugging at my mouth.
And maybe it’s that—maybe it’s the feeling of knowing just a little more about him, or maybe it’s the buzz of connection still humming between us—but it’s time to test the waters.
I tip my head casually. “So… is the group chat called Love the Game?”
The effect is immediate. He stops scrolling. His head lifts slowly, eyes narrowing with a look that could freeze the surface of a lake in July. The air between us sharpens. “Excuse me?” The words have bite. Not loud, but lethal.
Oh shit.
Abort mission.
I lift both hands, one still holding my beer. “Wait, no—hold on. I’m not spying or anything. I swear.”
His expression doesn’t budge.
“I only asked,” I say quickly, “because my brother’s in a group chat. Similar vibe. Queer athletes. He’s in college—plays ice hockey. I told you a bit about him. His name’s Cosmo. He mentioned the group name once.”
Camden stares at me, still frozen. A beat passes. Then another.
I start to wonder if I’ve just accidentally ended our friendship, potential sleeve work, and the chance of ever seeing him shirtless again, all in one well-meaning question.
And then, he unfreezes, eyes widening just enough to register shock. “Wait. Cosmo?”
I nod. “Yeah. Pain in my ass. Talks like he’s got his own podcast, never stops moving, allergic to shirts.”
Camden stares for half a second longer, then lets out a low breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “No shit,” he mutters, almost to himself.
I grin, some of the unease in my gut unravelling. “You know him?”
He huffs—actually huffs—and shakes his head, the tension in his shoulders practically melting on the spot. “Yeah. He never shuts the fuck up in the chat. Always tagging people in memes at two in the morning.”
“Sounds about right,” I say. “Once sent me a playlist titled ‘You’d Be Hotter with a Moustache.’”
Camden chuckles—a real one this time. Not quite full-bodied, but enough to make me feel like I’ve won something I didn’t know I was competing for.
“Jesus,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “That kid’s everywhere.”
I laugh. “He’s like glitter. Gets into everything and impossible to shake.”
Camden looks at me again, and this time there’s something different in his eyes. Not fully relaxed—he’s too tightly wound for that. But there’s less guard. Less steel. His voice, when he speaks again, is warmer than I’ve ever heard it. “Small fucking world.”
“No kidding.”
He shakes his head again, his smile staying in place. “Cosmo’s your kid brother.”
“For better or worse,” I say with a shrug.
And in this moment, he feels closer. Like the wall’s still there, but the gate’s cracked open just enough to see through. And damn, this version of Camden Crawford? Quietly amused, maybe even a little at ease? This version might be my new favourite addiction.
9
Camden
It’s well past ten, and the pub’s still humming, though there’s less noise and more warmth. But that might be something to do with Brent’s side being flush with mine. The back room’s half cleared out, the energy dialled down from “victory riot” to “low-key satisfaction.”
And my head’s buzzing, but not from the pint.
Brent is Cosmo’s brother.
Cosmo.
As in, the wild-card college hockey phenom who’d damn near stolen the show during that photoshoot last year. I remember the day vividly. We were all there for this “global queer athlete” piece. There were sprinters, more ice hockey players than I could shake a stick at, a football player—the proper British kind—who I’ve met up with a couple of times since, a retired cricketer who had zero time for anyone under the age of forty, and—of course—Cosmo.
That kid was a walking headline. Loud, charming, full of chaos and confidence, he spoke like a caffeinated sports commentator and acted like he was everyone’s hype man. The moment he walked in, I remember thinking, This kid’s going to take over the world or spontaneously combust trying.
He made half the room laugh, called the lighting guy “boss,” tried to get people to do choreographed shoulder pops mid-shoot, and got himself added to the group chat before we’d even left the building.
And yeah, he’s still in that chat. Still chaos incarnate. We’ve got Olympic hopefuls in there. Amateur cyclists. Quiet wrestlers. A lacrosse player who only responds in haikus. Somehow, I’ve turned into one of the old farts in the group—lurking more than contributing—but it’s become something I value. A rare space where I don’t have to be on.
Knowing Brent is connected to that—to them—loosens something tight inside my chest. Something I didn’t realise had been clamped down all night.
Maybe I can trust him.
It’s not just Cosmo’s reputation that matters—it’s how Brent talks about him. Pride without ego. Warmth without bragging. He isn’t riding his brother’s success; he’s just in his corner. And I know what a big deal Cosmo is. I’ve seen the highlights online. Sure, he hypes himself, but he backs it up. The kid’s got fire.
I catch myself smiling a little and turn towards Brent. We’re still close—thighs brushing. Always touching, but never too much.
“Cosmo’s… a character,” I say, voice pitched low.
Brent snorts into his drink. “Understatement of the year.”
“He keeps that chat alive, though. It’s… good, having that group. Bit of everything in there. Good kids like Cosmo, and old bastards like me.”
“You’re not that old,” Brent says, but he’s grinning, like he knows full well I’m going to roll my eyes. I do.
Still, the tension that had been wound so tight in my chest since the whistle blew? Since walking into this pub with Brent already inside, waiting? It eases. It’s not gone, but it’s better.
I clear my throat. “He ever deal with the media? Fans?”
Brent leans back slightly, nursing what’s left of his lager. “He’s pretty protected at college. The school’s good about that. Coaches, PR staff—his teammates have his back too. But as a family, we kind of made it our mission to look out for one another. Stay grounded. No bullshit.”
I nod, quiet for a beat.
“I miss them, though,” he says suddenly. His voice shifts—still open, but softer. “I don’t regret moving here. Not for a second. But being that far away from them? Some days that’s harder than I expected.”
That hits somewhere deep. I glance at him, wondering if I have a right to ask, but the words are already on my tongue. “Think you’ll ever go back? For good, I mean?”
He turns his head and looks right at me. I shouldn’t be holding my breath, but I am. Like something in me is waiting. Bracing.
“I don’t know,” he says after a pause. “I’ve got no set plans. I’ve been here a long time. It’s home now, in a weird way. Next year, I’ll apply for British citizenship.”
There’s a flicker in his voice—not hesitation, exactly, but something softer beneath the surface. Like he’s made peace with it. Like it still surprises him, calling another country home. Like part of him is still trying to mean it fully.
I blink. Something in me—something tangled and tightly guarded—unravels a little. It’s not just that he’s staying. It’s that he wants to. That this life, this place, is his. Even if sometimes, maybe, it still feels like he’s got one foot somewhere else.
I look at him too long, and when I do, I realise the truth is catching up with me. We’d agreed on friends. Tentative. Unspoken. But I’m attracted to him. And not just casually, and definitely not in that one-night way I’ve come to tolerate when the mood and the stars align.
This is different.
This is slower, warmer. This is a smile I want to keep earning. A voice I want in my ear when I’m walking home.
And that shit right there? That’s scary as fuck.
I’m still watching Brent. Still trying to process the whole potential British citizenship, that Cosmo’s his brother, and that I might actually like this man in a way that has nothing to do with simple physical attraction when I hear my name.
Loudly.
Twice.
“Crawford!”
I twist in my seat to find a few of my teammates waving me over—one in particular swaying a little too enthusiastically for comfort. Fuck.
I sigh, then glance at Brent. “Sorry,” I say, leaning in just enough to be heard. “Give me five?”
He nods, but I linger a second longer.
“And don’t—” I hesitate, then throw subtlety out the window. “Don’t go anywhere.”
His brows rise, just for a beat… like he wasn’t expecting that. But then that smile—that smile—breaks over his face. Confident. Warm. Easy in a way I’ll never be.
“I won’t,” he says.
God, help me.
I step away and push through the back room towards the noise. The lads part a bit as I arrive, and I clock who the problem is immediately. Briggs. He’s younger, just barely out of academy squad last season. Big, full of talent, and currently three pints past his limit. We’ve talked about keeping a low profile post-match. We always talk about it. But somehow, this guy’s got the tact of a cymbal-playing monkey.
“Briggs,” I growl, already regretting this, “what the fuck are you doing?”
“Caaaam,” he sings, grinning wide and slinging an arm over my shoulders. “Captain. My capt’n. You’re so serious tonight.”
“That’s because you’re being a dickhead.”
“Just celebratin’. Celebratin’ third place!”
“We’re not done, you twat,” I mutter, dragging his arm off me. “Four more games. You do remember the calendar, yeah?”
He wobbles dramatically, then attempts a very uncoordinated heel click. “I remember! I remember… that you never let me have any fun!”
I rub a hand down my face. “You’re one beer away from me calling your mum.”
He pauses, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Then, out of fucking nowhere, he wraps his arms around me like I’m a goddamn therapy dog and mumbles, “I wish I was you.”
I blink. “What?”
He just hugs me harder, his face mashed into my shoulder.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I ask, trying to untangle his arms. But he stumbles sideways, and that’s when I realise I’m going to have to get him out of here before he knocks over a table or someone decides to record him for a laugh. “Right,” I mutter. “Home time, superstar.”
Before I can call for backup, a voice speaks at my side. “Need a hand?”
It’s Brent. Of course it is. And goddamn, he’s already stepping in, wrapping one arm around Briggs’s back, steadying him with surprising ease.
I glance at him, grateful. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he says simply. “But I’ve got brothers too. Trust me, I’ve done this routine.”
We start hauling Briggs towards the back entrance. That’s when Briggs turns his head and blinks at Brent, like he’s just realised a whole new person is touching him. He stares hard, then slurs, “You’re hot.”
I damn near trip over my own feet.
Brent snorts but says nothing. He just keeps a firm grip on the guy.
My brain stutters. Briggs is… queer?
Is he?
He’s never said anything. Never hinted. But also, the kid’s private. Quiet. Intense when he’s not three drinks deep.
Briggs mutters again, more to himself, “Men suck. But not the good kind of suck. Just the… the shitty, disappointing, leave-you-on-read kind of suck.”
Brent bites back a laugh, while I’m busy trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is how I’m finding out about one of my teammates potentially being in the closet. In the middle of a pub, with the man I keep imagining naked keeping Briggs upright.
We make it to the exit, and I prop the door open as Brent guides Briggs into the cooling night air. I shake my head. “Jesus Christ.”
Brent glances over. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Just… wasn’t expecting that.”
He doesn’t say anything, just adjusts Briggs’s weight slightly as we start guiding him towards the car park. We’re halfway to my car when I catch the flash. It’s fast, just one flick of white light in the periphery, but it hits me like a body blow.
My head snaps around. My gut tightens. My shoulders go high and hard. And then I see him across the lot, standing behind a parked van, phone in hand. Not even a long-lens camera, just a phone held high. Opportunistic. Feral.
Pap.
The bastard doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he just lowers his phone like it’s no big deal. But it is. I stop cold, one hand still wrapped around Briggs’s upper arm. I want to deck the scumbag. God, I want to walk over there and lay him out with one swing. No warning. Just years of bottled-up rage behind a fist and a fractured screen.
